


Something Good

by jellyfishline



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), mentions of disordered eating, past abusive relationships, slow-ish burn like medium low heat
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 10:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishline/pseuds/jellyfishline
Summary: Prompto is a college dropout and general failure who’s just trying to survive the week. Noctis is the world’s worst employee at the local café. They’re a disaster in the making, sure, but once you hit rock bottom, the only way to go is up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to howlsawiz for screaming about this with me, you're the best <3

Motivation is a fickle thing.

Like, for a good photo opportunity? Prompto will do just about anything. He will get up at five in the morning, throw on some jeans and maybe run a comb through his hair, and be out the door in five minutes flat. And it’s not even because he sometimes makes money doing it, either. It’s just… when he really wants something, he’ll find a way to make it work. Even if he’s half-asleep and can’t find his wallet. He won’t accept defeat without trying his damnedest first.

And then, there’s stuff like this. Like buying groceries, or calling the landlady about the stupid broken toilet, or… well. Just about anything else, really.

It’s not that he doesn’t care about the daily-life-maintenance stuff. Kind of the opposite, really. He’s always wanted to be one of those people who’s got their shit together, but when he tries to make lists in his head of all the stuff he needs to get done he gets distracted, and he’s always writing notes on his arm that get smudged before he has time to read and remember what they were for, and honestly his landlady scares the crap out of him and sometimes just making eye contact with the cashier at the supermarket is too much to manage and—

Okay. He’s a mess.

And it’s not that that’s news to anyone. But he feels—maybe things used to be better? Before his life imploded and he lost his friends and his job and—

And. Anyway.

He’s just trying to get by, really. That’s enough for now. Just… survive the week, and the week after that, and the week after that. For the rest of his life. Yay.

But at least he’s eating regular meals again. He’s finally starting to get his weight back up— _that’s a good thing good thing **good thing** , _he reminds himself every time he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his cheekbones receding back from that starvation gauntness, the stepladder of ribs disappearing from his sides, his clothes finally fitting again instead of hanging from his shoulders like limp flags. He’s starting to—well, not recognize himself, not exactly. But at least he doesn’t look like one of those animal abuse PSAs anymore.

And the great thing about eating is that food tastes amazing and is motivating in itself. So even if he’s not brave enough to tackle a cheesecake without getting war flashbacks, at least he’s finding it easy enough to keep up with breakfast, lunch, dinner, and a decent mix of protein and carbs in with his rabbit food. Besides, he doesn’t have the cash to spend on desserts and stuff anyway. (Coffee, though… coffee’s a different matter.)

He’s managing. That’s what he tells his parents on the rare occasion they care enough to call him. It’s what he tells his boss when she corners him at work, stack of printouts in her hands and a terrifying too-knowing crease in her brow. It’s what he tells himself at night, alone, staring up at the water-damage stains in the ceiling.

He’s okay. He’s managing.

He just… wishes that he didn’t feel spread quite so thin by the things that others take in stride.

 

***

 

So if you needed further proof that motivation is a bitch, here’s exhibit #1.

Things are difficult. Things have always been difficult, but after everything that’s happened he’s amazed he’s even capable of limping through the motions anymore. He’s been having a shitty fucking week—the shittiest he’s had in like, months—he hasn’t slept, he’s been nibbling on nothing but rice crackers and takeout from the back of his fridge and he’s seriously so behind on his work, like _seriously_ seriously, he’s freaking out about it a little. He hasn’t even showered in three days and damn he hopes it doesn’t show.

But here’s the thing. Despite all the reasons he has to curl up under his chocobo-print comforter and wait for death to claim him, despite the nagging (read: screaming) voices in his head telling him to get off his ass and actually get some work done or at least change his jeans, despite the fact that it’s completely stupid and he doesn’t have the money for it anyway—

Here he is. Standing in line at his favorite café, scrubbing a hand through his hair, hoping he doesn’t look too much like a corpse when it’s his turn to order.

_It’s okay_ , Prompto tells himself. It’s okay to indulge a little, give himself a carrot at the end of the stick that has been this hellish week. He deserves a—okay, he doesn’t _deserve_ a reward, but it might help get him back on track. He didn’t even realize he was hungry until he stepped inside the warm embrace of smells that this café always carries around like a cloud of pure happiness. He’d thought he was numb to the gnawing in his gut, but now it’s back with a vengeance, digging into his stomach like the sharp end of a rock.

See, this’ll be good for him. He’ll perk back up after a little sandwich action and maybe some fries, just like his plants always do after he forgets to water them for—shit, when was the last time he watered his plants?

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it because the girl ahead of him is counting her change and it’s going to be his turn in .5 seconds and he still hasn’t decided what to order. He’ll probably just get the grilled tuna club. It’s what he gets every time and it’s so good (everything on the menu is good, seriously) but… maybe he should branch out a little? The chicken salad only has twenty more calories. Or—

The girl steps aside. And Prompto’s brain short-circuits.

_Oh fuck oh fuck abort mission abort ABORT_.

The cashier. Is not. One of the regular cashiers.

It’s not the big guy with the muscles who looks like he could break Prompto’s back without breaking a sweat. It’s not the cute girl with the moogle sweatshirt. It’s not even one of the guys that Prompto occasionally spies through the swinging doors to the kitchen. It’s… it’s the worst of all possible people Prompto could be confronted with after a week of living like a slob.

It’s the _hot one._

Okay—technically, just about everyone who works at this café is some variety of attractive. Prompto’s not sure if it’s some kind of job requirement or just a crazy random coincidence but he’s never seen anyone behind the counter who didn’t surpass ‘average’ by at least three miles and one gym membership. They’re all athletic and cheerful and the big muscle guy is allergic to sleeves and has this massive chest-spanning tattoo and the first time Prompto saw it he actually died a little inside. It’s one of the reasons why this café is his favorite—yeah the food is great, but he also gets the chance to surreptitiously ogle some incredibly gorgeous people and dream about what he would do if he ever got the chance to photograph any of them.

But. This guy.

Prompto doesn’t believe in fate, or love at first sight, or soulmates, or any of that kind of stuff. It’s a nice thought, sure, but life is too messy and complicated for any of that to hold water. Honestly some of the best things that ever happened to him were accidents, and some of the worst felt completely destined at the time.

But he does believe that sometimes you see people that just, like, _click._ It’s not that they’re attractive, but there’s something about them that’s _attracting,_ that draws you in and takes your breath away and pins you like fly paper. And you don’t know a thing about them, really, they’re just a stranger like any other you’d pass by on the street, but there’s something glittering and shining about them that makes you wonder if you ought to say hello.

And Prompto knows he has this horrible habit of getting crushes on literally anyone who’s the least bit nice to him, and he knows it probably isn’t healthy to spend more time envisioning his future marriage to whatever this weeks’ flavor of smiling sympathetic stranger is, and he knows that after everything it’d be for the best if he just swore off romance entirely, but—

But this _guy._

This guy is half the reason he’s even here in the first place. Not that he ever talks to him—gods no, that’d be a disaster. But sometimes the guy smiles and says hi and Prompto’s heart physically melts in his chest, and sometimes Prompto gets a sandwich and camps out in the corner so he can watch the guy mop the floors or argue with big muscle man or just stare vacantly into space—he’s usually staring vacantly into space, even when he’s obviously supposed to be doing something else. Which is probably why he gets into so many arguments with muscle man, come to think of it.

Once, Prompto actually caught him curled up, knees hugged to his chest, under one of the table booths. When he saw Prompto watching he just raised a finger to his lips and shook his head, and when big muscle man passed by a few minutes later, Prompto pointedly did not give him up—Prompto might be a waste of human consciousness but he’s not a _snitch,_ geez.

And anyway the point is Prompto is fucked. Because it’s his turn to order and he still hasn’t moved, hasn’t _breathed_ , his mouth is desert-dry and tastes like he just licked a sandcastle and the rest of the line is going to get so impatient if he doesn’t move but oh, _oh fuck_ , there’s no time to run.

The guy has seen him.

Eye contact. Wow. Prompto can’t even remember the last time he made eye contact with someone. He wants to cringe away but can’t because those eyes—they’re just very blue. Very very blue and rich and he wants to _paint_ them, which is ridiculous, he hasn’t painted anything since that one semester of college he barely survived and he wasn’t any good at it then either, but he doesn’t think he can do them justice in a photograph without some very specialized lighting equipment that he doesn’t actually own and—

“Hey,” the guy says. “You’re back.”

What.

“What?” Prompto says.

The guy tucks a long piece of charcoal hair behind his ear. The curve of his shoulder as he perks up from his usual slump makes a better composition than Prompto could ever catch with his camera. “You haven’t been here in a while,” he says.

His voice is pretty quiet. Prompto has to step closer just to parse the words over the drone of the lunch rush in the background. Even once he does, though… he still feels like he’s missing a crucial part of the conversation. The guy noticed? That Prompto didn’t come in all week?

_Why?_

“Uh, yeah,” Prompto manages, despite his tongue’s attempt to try itself into an elaborate knot under his teeth. “Yeah. I… guess I haven’t.”

The guy’s eyes slide slowly across Prompto’s face. “I thought you’d moved on. Y’know. Found somewhere else to get your caffeine fix.”

Is… is this what they’re doing? Talking to each other? Like normal people? Does Prompto even remember how to talk like a normal person?

“Yeah, ha, no.” Prompto fumbles with his wallet so he doesn’t start cracking his knuckles again—one of his many numerous terrible habits. “I’m in a committed relationship with these lattes, man. I’m not gonna cheat.”

Prompto would probably cringe over his own pathetic attempt at humor if he wasn’t completely blindsided by the guy _smiling_. Gods, his smile is perfect—small and shy and sweet and Prompto is done, stick a fork in him, he’s _done._

“Good to know,” the guy grins. “You gonna buy something special today? To, uh, celebrate your reunion?”

He shouldn’t. He really _shouldn’t_.

“Gimme a mocha caramel,” Prompto says, before his brain catches up with his stomach. “But, um, leave off the whipped cream,” he adds as he scans the calorie counts marked up on the menu. Shit, he’s gonna regret this…

“And you want a tuna club with that, right?”

“Y-yeah?” Prompto says, more out of surprise than anything else. This guy not only remembers his face, but his order? The customer service training here must be intense.

…of course, none of the other employees have remembered his order before. And if Prompto was gonna peg anyone for employee of the month, it wouldn’t be the guy who hides under tables to get out of doing his job.

Maybe...

No. No _stop_ , that is dangerous territory and Prompto is not letting himself go any further. He’s _not_ getting his hopes up. There’s zero chance that this guy is actually _interested_ in him as anything other than a wallet on legs—he’s literally being _paid_ to be nice to the customers, geez. Way to be a creep, Prompto.

And even if there was the slightest tiniest most miniscule sliver of a chance that this guy is interested in him, there’s no way it would go anywhere. Prompto isn’t exactly relationship material. And he doesn’t have very good luck with—

_Shit._

His chest constricts. It’s gotta be the hunger—there’s no other excuse for the sudden thought in his head, the pang in his chest. He ducks his head, fights the urge to scan the crowd for the sight of the person who is _not_ here, can’t be, and even if he was it—it wouldn’t matter because Prompto is not going back. Not now, not ever, not if he was paid to, he’s _never going back_.

“Nine twenty-five.”

Prompto nearly jumps out of his socks. “H-huh?” It’s less a word and more an intake of breath.

The guy is staring at him. Brow furrowed. “Nine twenty-five,” he repeats, quieter. “That’s your total.”

“O-oh.” Prompto swallows. “Right. Sorry.”

His hands are shaking so badly he can barely open his wallet. He manages to scrape together a few bucks but comes up thirty cents short. He’d pay with his card but with the panic budding under his skin he’s not sure he can risk it, every time he touches his checking account he gets anxious and he’s already halfway to a full-scale freakout in the middle of a fucking queue.

“I—I’m sure I’ve got change somewhere.” Prompto digs through his pockets—used Kleenex, gum wrappers, flash drive. Nothing. “S-sorry, I, I’m not, um—”

“It’s fine.” The guy’s scooping his meager funds into the register. “I’ll make up the difference.”

Prompto freezes. “You don’t have to—”

Behind Prompto, someone is rapping the toe of their boot against the ground. Loud. Angry.

“It’s fine,” the guy says again, but Prompto knows how to read between the lines. _You’re holding up the line._ “It’s just thirty cents, man.”

“S-sorry.” He wants to _die._ “I’m—thank you, I’m so sorry.”

The receipt is barely in his hand before he’s bolting. _Stupid._ His knees are actually wobbling, he feels like he’s going to fall over when he finally face-plants into a corner table—just slams his forehead right into the varnish because if he tries to hold himself up for a second longer there’s a very real chance he’ll start crying. _Pathetic. Worthless. Helpless piece of shit_ —

He was so close. So close to having something like a human conversation and he blew it and this was the most he’s talked to anyone in three days and gods he’s _hopeless._

He scrapes his fingers into his scalp hard enough to crush what little styling he’s managed to do with his hair. The gouge of his nails hurts; it helps, the words are a little harder to hear over the sting.

Breathe in, breathe out. Deep but quiet—don’t let anyone hear, just breathe. _Breathe_.

_Inhale_. The roaring lessens. _Exhale_. The tightness eases.

He rubs the back of his neck, soft, grounding. An apology, of sorts, for the pain he’s caused himself. Not that he really deserves it, but. But.

He doesn’t know what he deserves anymore.

“Hey.”

Prompto jumps to attention. But it’s not who he expects to find staring down at him—it’s just that guy again, furrowed brow, slumped shoulders and all. There’s a tray in his hands.

“Sorry, didn’t wanna wake you,” he says. “But you never came to get your food at the counter, so.”

Prompto stares. There on the tray is his tuna club and his stupidly unhealthy latte. Over the guy’s shoulder, Prompto can see that he’s left the register unattended. (Why hasn’t this guy been fired, exactly?)

“Um,” Prompto says, as he sees himself, distantly, reach up to take the tray out of the guy’s hands. The food is still warm. The steam from the coffee fogs his glasses as he lifts it to his face. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” The guy frowns at the table, and for a second Prompto is afraid he’s expecting, like, a tip or something, but—

“Uh.” He chews on his lip. “T-take care of yourself, okay?”

Prompto is stunned. He’s so stunned he can’t do anything but gape as the guy slouches back towards the counter (and gets hit on the back of the head by muscle man, who’s taken over the increasingly rowdy crowd at the register.) He’s stunned for so long and so thoroughly that by the time he finally thinks to lift the coffee to his lips, he expects it to be cold.

But it’s not. It’s the perfect temperature. Between his fingers, black marker lines stand out starkly on the paper cup. Prompto squints.

It’s… not exactly easy to decipher. It takes him a few seconds to figure out what he’s looking at. There’s a (lopsided, smudged) smiley face, a few unreadable scribbles, and a name.

_Moltis?_ Prompto scrunches his nose. No… _Noctis._

He glances up at the counter just in time to see a head of ruffled dark hair slip through the swinging doors and out of sight. Muscle man catches his eye, though, and—did he just _wink_?

Prompto sits back in his chair.

Noctis. Huh.

It’s a better name than ‘that guy’ anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Well. I guess I'm writing a coffee shop AU now :D
> 
> Comments keep me writing! And as always you can find me on [tumblr](http://jellyfishline.tumblr.com/) if you'd like to scream at me about Prompto being loved and treated like the inspiration he is.


End file.
